


Stained Ink

by seiyuna



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, Lukso Province, M/M, Meteor City, Pre-Canon, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-04 12:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14020161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiyuna/pseuds/seiyuna
Summary: Kurapika wants to meet his soulmate.Kuroro doesn't think he has one. One day, the words of a foreign language appear on his inner wrist—only he can't read them.





	1. Chapter 1

 

To live in this world

you must be able  
to do three things:  
to love what is mortal;  
to hold it

against your bones knowing  
your own life depends on it;  
and, when the time comes to let it go,  
to let it go.

— _In Blackwater Woods_

 

* * *

 

Beyond the stifling scent of decaying fruit, the stench of burning plastic, there was something more pleasant to be found in the heart of the marketplace. Adjacent to the sloped shop fronts was a makeshift market stall born from neatly cut cardboard and a clean canopy. The modest structure could be easily overlooked when garments of diverse cuts and vibrant colors were suspended from hangers, stark against their harsh surroundings. A breeze swept through the street, fluttering the display of jewel-bright colors in the air.

Kuroro shivered, wrapping his arms around himself with the deception of warmth. His torso had been left bare and while that would have been fine in the summer season or even early autumn, it was much cooler now.

With his shirt in her hands, Machi stared at his exposed chest. He expected a scolding for not taking care of his clothing or even a snide remark concerning the pallor of his skin or the meagerness of his limbs. What she had to say defied all expectations.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up as a cradle robber.”

Kuroro blinked in confusion. “I would never—what a terrible thing to say.”

“I can’t think of any other reason as to why you’re unmarked,” Machi said, pointing a needle at his chest. She rolled up the left sleeve of her shirt, exposing a hint of ink on her arm. Rather than words, there was a small flower drawn in thin, delicate strokes—something that she would never draw on herself. “My intuition is never wrong.”

Kuroro frowned, but he couldn’t argue with that. He settled into silence, allowing Machi to busy herself with mending his shirt. Her talent was undeniable when it only took a thin needle and some thread for her to deftly stitch a tear back together. It was no wonder she made a name for herself tending to garments and sewing new ones altogether. But again and again, instead of watching the movement of her hands, he was drawn to the ink etched onto her skin.

The marks made on his skin were supposed to manifest on his soulmate’s as well—whether they were careful and practiced questions like _what is your name_ or _where are you from_ or even the trace of a small flower. Over the years, when his questions were left unanswered, he reproduced scenes from his favorite books on his forearms, lines of poetry on his wrists, verses of scripture on the back of his hands—

All without a single response.

There was always the possibility that his soulmate was much younger than him or hadn’t learned to write or hadn’t even been born yet—but that could hardly be true at his age. During nights accompanied by candlelight, despite the scarcity of records, Kuroro dedicated himself to texts regarding the soulmate phenomenon. His penchant for knowledge, his thirst for reasoning compelled him to turn to every book and scroll and wood block to understand the circumstances that his unmarked state implied.

After mornings of waking up with aching eyes and ink stains on his cheeks, he could never find documentation explaining it all. Searching for flaws in logic, putting theories to the test, studying the relationships of his companions—all of this was for naught.

Kuroro left his skin blank now, because perhaps, there wasn’t someone meant for him after all.

And that was fine.

“Finished,” Machi confirmed. She raised his black shirt and revealed the front and back to him, the tear impressively mended by threads barely there.

“Thank you.” Kuroro received the shirt from her with care. He stretched his arms and slid it over, welcoming the feeling of being clothed again. “How much do I owe you?”

“You can pay me back another time,” Machi answered, not looking at him now. A garden of flowers bloomed across the expanse of her forearm and a small cat soon accompanied it. There was the slightest hint of a smile on her lips, but it was quickly buried. “Looks like Paku’s getting bored.”

“She’s been waiting for a while,” Kuroro said, thinking that Pakunoda must have made dinner only to have empty seats at the table. “Are you writing back to her?”

“Need something to write with,” Machi muttered. “One of my clients is supposed to come by soon. Sunset, I think she said.”

Sometimes, Kuroro remained at her stall when her business was open slightly later usual. Nightfall was often accompanied by people with dubious intentions and the unavoidable risk of thievery, especially when the business owner appeared to be a young woman. Despite her convictions that she could take care of herself, Kuroro hesitated to leave her on her own.

The evening light was golden now. At this time of day, butchers were removing the last of roasted pigs and plucked chickens from their hooks, merchants were storing away their fruits and vegetables into crates, and old men with lit cigars were arguing over debts to be paid. The acrid smoke tended to irritate Kuroro's nose. Eventually, a young woman arrived at the stall with a sleeping infant in her arms, inclining her head in greeting.

The woman didn't appear to exude danger, despite that it could have been well-concealed. Both he and Machi have had enough experiences between them to conclude as such. Dipping under the canopy, she laid a bottle of black ink and various writing implements on the surface of the table. As part of protocol, Machi pressed her forefinger into the ink and rubbed it against her thumb, finding that it hadn’t dried yet. Satisfied, she accepted the offering in exchange for an article of clothing, clearly tailored for the woman’s child.

Machi nodded. “You’re all set.”

“Thank you,” came the woman’s soft response. “I’ll make sure to come back again.”

While Machi’s services were well-appreciated, ink was precious here. It might not have been water or electricity, but it was highly coveted by people who couldn’t even write. There were some who were fortunate enough to have been able to meet their soulmate in Meteor City, but others, not so much. It was a way to contact the outside world—a world unimaginable to people like them.

Machi cracked her knuckles. “I’m all done for today. Let’s head back.”

After Kuroro assisted in packing up her supplies, they headed towards a nearby district. In the narrow dirt streets, women and children were still crouched over the heaps of garbage, sorting cans and bottles into salvageable and unsalvageable piles. It may have looked like rubbish, but there were opportunities to be found, especially when most people did not care for things unless they could be stolen. 

They avoided stepping on the broken glass bottles strewn on the ground, the shadow of a small creature sniffing the discarded trash. In a more secluded part of the district, past the squatter huts, an abandoned construct of a home welcomed them. Letting Machi enter first, Kuroro closed the door behind him with a quiet sound. A subtle herbal scent wafted in the air, almost like incense.

“Welcome back.” Pakunoda looked up from her book and closed it, a smile on her face. She rose from the bed and stepped over to the low table where three bowls were covered with lids. “You came later than usual.”

Machi dropped her backpack on the floor, pushing it with her foot to a corner of the room. “Sorry. I’ll let you know next time.”

“Don’t worry,” Pakunoda assured. She reached over to gather the bowls in her hands and the stretch of familiar flowers was visible on her left arm as well. “You two can have a seat while I warm everything up.” Kuroro was ready to follow her into the kitchen area, but he was refused by her hand. “I don’t need help from you guys either. Let’s not have a repeat of last time.”

“Thanks for having me here,” Kuroro said politely, to which she waved her hand. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, especially when he seemed to be intruding upon Machi’s time with her, but she was always willing to have him over. Even if his culinary skills could not compare to hers.

He made himself comfortable on the floor, with Machi sitting across from him, running a hand through her hair to let her ponytail loose. It didn’t take long for Pakunoda to return with everything on a tray, accompanied by three cups of tea. Even if circumstances were unkind, she was always resourceful with what she had. They took their time with their porridge and tea, discussing business gains from Machi’s end and wondering what the others might be doing now when Pakunoda stopped speaking and dropped her utensils.

Suddenly, Machi seized Kuroro’s wrist and turned it towards her. A tense silence stretched over them as he tried to understand what was happening, and even when she opened her mouth, she still seemed unsure.

Machi rolled up his sleeve. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

The first thing Kuroro noticed was black ink sweeping over his inner wrist in intricate strokes, getting larger and larger and larger. He could hardly believe it—could hardly breathe. It was as if all words were being strangled in his throat, his heart was being wrenched because these were no longer words from old books, but something alive and _breathing_.

Machi didn’t touch the writing, because only he had the right, but she looked as surprised as he was feeling. The script was all long strokes and accent marks with characters that seemed more like indecipherable letters than actual words, but the hand that was writing it was rushed and impatient, as if belonging to someone with a temper. When she released her grip, Kuroro slowly ran his fingers over the letters, tracing over each line, trying to imagine the person behind these words.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Pakunoda said in a hushed tone, and Kuroro agreed. He had never seen such a language before, and he would surely have to travel well beyond Meteor City in his lifetime to meet them. “You’ve never had any writing?”

“Not a single word,” Kuroro affirmed, his chest feeling too tight. 

His lack of counterpart was supposed to be ideal, something that would help him grow as an individual, because he accepted that he didn’t need to give his heart and soul to anyone else. Why did it have to be now? Where could have they possibly been all this time?

It was all so confusing, but this was proof that he had someone, these words gliding into existence. 

“Congratulations,” Machi said wryly. “My intuition might be wrong after all.” She retrieved her backpack, procuring a pen from her earlier exchange. Feeling generous, she held it out to him. “You should write back to them.”

“I wouldn’t know what to write,” Kuroro said with a frown. He continued studying his wrist with a newfound curiosity, because the writing had ceased now and he could feel it—this subtle sensation thrumming beneath his skin and making his blood sing. He only knew the common language of the world, but he didn’t know if his soulmate did as well. “What kind of person do you think they could be?”

“For all I know, they could be cursing at you right now.” Machi shrugged. “It's not like we can read their writing.”

Pakunoda smiled, offering a different perspective. “I think they must be lovely. Intelligent and kind, we would hope.” She glanced over at Machi for a brief moment, but it did not go unnoticed. “They have to be, if they’re meant to be with you.”

Kuroro liked the thought of that. He closed his hand over his wrist, and perhaps it was hope, perhaps it was foolishness, but he could have sworn that he felt another pulse beneath his fingertips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before they were Spiders, they were teenagers too. I would like for Kuroro to form the Troupe about a year or two prior to the massacre. For this story, Kuroro would most likely be in his late teens, while Kurapika would still be a child.
> 
> I'll be developing their relationship into Kurapika's adulthood. Since Kurapika learned the universal language after meeting Sheila, I thought it would be interesting if he could gain exposure to the outside world by learning through Kuroro.
> 
> The massacre will still occur, because I wanted to explore their relationship from friends to enemies to lovers instead. Which would mean tearing these two apart..
> 
> Please leave a comment—I'd love to know what you think of this chapter. You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Also, I'm hosting a [kurokura fanzine](https://kurokura-zine.tumblr.com/post/171541912535/krkr-zine) with my friend. Feel free to check it out!


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Do not open your heart to the outside world._

That was the universal law of their clan.

But even something like that couldn’t stop Kurapika from pushing past the doors to the Elder’s sanctum, standing proudly before him, and staring at him with a tenacity of someone beyond his years. Formalities were supposed to precede an audience with the Elder, given the astounded reactions from the advisors Kurapika shoved past during his way here, but he couldn't have cared less.

“Your heart belongs here and only here.” The candlelight flickered across the lines and wrinkles of his worn face, telling of how tired he was of speaking to Kurapika. He looked like this for as long as Kurapika could remember, all furrowed brows and an overgrowth of grey hair. “You have no place contacting the one you call your soulmate.”

Kurapika knew of the sacrifices of the clan to ensure their livelihood, their nomadic tendencies to evade hunters, but it had been a century now. Surely, things could change among them. “What about everyone who married into our clan from the outside? I don’t understand why we have to continue hiding like this.”

“Their relationships with our people are tangible, not a result of some ambiguous soul bonds,” Elder answered, sounding weary. “Mizeru trains our men in combat and learns our hunting practices in kind. Chikuta cares for our children, teaches them, preserves the stories of our culture. But your alleged soulmate? They’re not someone you can see—someone you can trust.” 

“You don’t know that!”

“I know more than some child!” The candlelight trembled with the sound of his voice, but Kurapika didn’t so much as flinch. “There is a reason why we cleave the soul bond for all our children—so that their heads are not filled with useless fantasies like yours. When you were born, it was your mother who refused to perform the ritual despite the consequences she would face.” He shook his head in disapproval. “Now, look at the way you were raised.” 

Kurapika dragged his next words beyond his lips, low and furious. “You can say what you’d like about me, but Mother has nothing to do with this.” His obstinacy was likely inherited from her, but the last thing he wanted was to be written off as simply _obstinate_. “These rules make absolutely no sense.”

“It seems you are incapable of understanding.” He made himself clear that he had enough of speaking to Kurapika. “In the end, the soul bond is yours to do as you wish, but know this—it will be your family who will be punished on your behalf.”

A steadying breath to drag his temper under control, and Kurapika was going to have the last word. “You’re the foolish one, old man.” 

Kurapika saw the disbelief on his face, turned around, and made his choice.

It was later in the day now, though sunset had not befallen them. His neighbors were gathering fruits from the vast trees while the children played amongst themselves. A ripe fruit fell at Kurapika’s feet and he picked it up, holding it out to one of the younger children who accepted his offering with thanks. As he walked past them, the air smelled of leaves and damp earth, cooling the fury and frustration that nearly overwhelmed him earlier.

This was home.

But it could have been so much more.

The forest was magnificent in its beauty, but his clan only existed within itself. Neither Kurapika nor his family ever ventured beyond this forest, and that filled him with a sense of longing and a nostalgic ache for something he never saw before. There were places he could hardly imagine, places he never set foot in, and perhaps never would. The thought made Lukso seem so inconsequential in comparison, a relic forgotten by the outside for eternities.

Slipping past the overgrown weeds and shrubs, he approached the riverbank, a walk away from his neighbors’ dwellings. There was a secret place where he spent too much of his time when he wished to be alone, but it had been a shared secret.

“Kurapika!”

Pairo waved from where he sat on the rocks, urging him to join him. With his pants rolled up to the knees, his legs were submerged in the clear water of the river. He remained close to the shallow part of the river, easing the worry in Kurapika’s heart, because it would have been so easy for the water to sweep him away.

Kurapika made himself comfortable by his side, removing his shoes so he could bathe his feet too. He eased his feet into the river, welcoming the cold of the water. “Were you waiting for me?”

Pairo’s smile was gentle. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Kurapika rolled up his sleeves, baring his arms to him. He had been aware of the script over his arms throughout his childhood, but never truly understood until his mother divulged the circumstances to him. The writing had ceased a few years prior, when Kurapika was concerned that his soulmate _died_ before he had a chance to reciprocate. Despite the heavy weight of regret in his heart, he never brushed ink against his skin, because the last thing he wanted was for his parents to be punished on his behalf. 

“I was thinking of the outside again.” Kurapika stared at his reflection in the surface of the river. Sometimes, he folded paper birds and sent them adrift the river, in hope that they would reach a destination far from here—that they would reach his soulmate. The thought was so breathtaking. “I want to write to my soulmate to let them know that I’m here. Am I being ridiculous?”

Pairo shook his head. “I think it’s amazing that you have one. I’d want to talk to them too.”

“Really?” Kurapika’s heart felt too large for his chest.

“Auntie must have really wanted you to meet them if she fought for your right to keep your soul bond.” Pairo absently splashed his legs in the water. “But—this is really difficult. Maybe when you’re older, you’ll be allowed to go to the outside?”

“I can’t wait that long.” Kurapika frowned. “Because if I can write to my soulmate, maybe they’ll also know someone who can help with your eyes and legs. If I don’t get caught, if it’s just this once—” 

“Be careful,” Pairo warned gently. “I don’t want you and your family to get in trouble. Besides, your soulmate is someone who belongs to you, so you don't have to concern yourself over me like that.”

“Don’t worry. When I get permission to leave, I’ll take you to meet my soulmate someday.” Kurapika found himself grinning, because there was nobody he wanted to accompany him more than Pairo. “It’s a promise.” 

That evening, the door to Father’s study was unlocked. A stream of light came from the gap of the door and Kurapika slipped inside with quiet footsteps. A single lamp illuminated the overwhelming stacks of old books, scrolls, and notes on the desk, with no one in the carved oak chair.

Mother always said that she loved Father for his brains, not his looks, for he was an academic who kept records of their people and even penned his own stories. The only times Kurapika came inside were when he was allowed to borrow some books, but only in Father's presence, so he prepared several excuses if he was found here. Behind the piles of papers, a lone bottle of black ink caught his attention.

Kurapika’s heartbeat pounded in his throat, but he did not allow himself to waver. His gaze never left the door as he reached for the quill, his hands trembling in anticipation. He dipped the quill in the black ink, shook off the excess, and glided the nib across his exposed wrist. It was rushed, it was fearless, but it was a first for him—

_Are you there?_

The black script caught the evening light, an affirmation that he was indeed here, that he was reaching out to someone who knew nothing of his existence. He paused in his efforts, because this was complete madness and sheer foolishness, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he could prove their clan wrong. There was hope in each word carved into his skin, but it felt too much like heresy. 

_I hope you know that I’ll be punished if I get caught. Answer me, please._

The distant sound of footsteps made Kurapika set down the quill and cover the bottle. The glass nearly slipped from his grasp when he secured the lid. He rolled down his sleeve to cover all evidence, intent on keeping the writing hidden until he received a response.

Before Father could discover his presence, he retreated to his bedroom. He was old enough to have a room separate from his parents, though there was nothing more than his bed and a bookshelf. He never needed to hide anything from his parents, until now. 

As he buried himself beneath the covers, taking care to not smudge the ink, he thought of his soulmate waiting for him. He thought of the stars in the sky, as if they were capable of being touched, because his soulmate lay beneath the same sky. And when he dreamed, warm winds lifted him from the earth and into the sky, where the morning star welcomed him.

 

 

 

Two characters.

Two which were not written by his hand. 

Kurapika’s breath hitched in his throat. He would have missed them had he not rolled up his sleeve further, and that possibility compelled him to check his entire body for any other words. There was nothing besides the two characters near the bend of his elbow. The crisp lines glistened in the sunlight, as if freshly written in ink, but when he slid his fingers over the letters, they did not smudge the way his own writing did as he slept. 

His chest swelled with a great, burgeoning affection. He wondered if he was still in the confines of his dream, but that couldn’t be possible. One touch of his soulmate’s words, and all Kurapika could think was _alive_.

When he crept past the hallway, Father's gentle snores could be heard, so he returned to his study. Against the wall was a bookshelf that dominated him in height, with the stories of their clan arranged by their titles. On the lowest shelf, there was a thick brown tome situated between thinner books. From the inscription on the spine, it was the dictionary Kurapika once heard of. Some of their clansmen contributed to its contents after experiencing the outside world, but it appeared to be long untouched.

Kurapika removed it and blew the dust off the cover, suppressing a sneeze thereafter. Father wouldn’t notice that it was gone if he never seemed to read it. He didn’t plan on staying here and figuring everything out on his own, because this was a moment that needed to be shared.

He carefully placed the dictionary into his bag and stepped outside. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the overhead sun, he concentrated on the greenery stretching out before him and made his way back to the riverbank. When their clan's dwellings descended out of sight behind him, it would have been easy enough to find the forest’s edge in the thickness of the trees. He cast a wary glance into the shadows, where vines and briars had flourished.

Kurapika recalled a steep overhang he once encountered there, the groaning creak of an old tree branch and— _falling_ , but not striking the ground. The next thing he knew, he was holding back tears and cradling Pairo’s body in his arms at the foot of it. A rush of regret accompanied the memory, though he would think about it later. It was a place he vowed to never return to.

Closer to the river, within the hollow of the largest tree, Kurapika hid away a notebook and writing implements for situations like these. Beneath the shade of the tree, the first thing he did was replicate the two characters on a blank sheet of paper, in case his soulmate decided to erase them. It was the first time he ever touched the language of the outside world and that was nothing short of fascinating. The rush of the river was calm, almost benevolent, making him wonder what lay beyond the other side of the water.

It would be a short while before Pairo was up and about, so he pored over the heavy dictionary on his lap, trying not to tear any of the old pages. It was so overwhelming, seeing all these unfamiliar words, but finding just two characters seemed like a manageable feat. 

“What’s that?”

Kurapika peered up at the sound of a familiar voice. “Pairo! You won’t believe what happened.”

Pairo sank down to sit beside him on the grass. “They wrote back to you?” 

“Yes, but—” Kurapika couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or cry, or what he should be doing at all. His next breath shuddered, almost a sob. “I think they’re saying sorry.” He held out his arm to Pairo, then pointed to a line on the page that matched the characters. It made his heart ache. “What does that even mean?”

A slow shake of the head, and then Pairo smiled. “Maybe they’re apologizing for having stopped writing to you.”

Something twisted in Kurapika’s chest, aching and soothing at once, defying all words he could conjure. “My soulmate is an idiot then.” A rueful smile eased onto his lips. There were so many things that his soulmate could have written after penning lines in great length in the past, but this time, there were only two characters in apology. The response was so terse that Kurapika feared his soulmate felt slighted. “I should be the one apologizing, but they don’t even know our language. I’m not sure how to respond.”

“Why don’t you try drawing something?”

“Like what?”

Pairo’s expression was contemplative. “What you see in front of you?”

“I’d be drawing you, if that’s the case,” Kurapika said with a laugh. It was a pleasant idea, when he didn't know what to write. He pressed his pen above his soulmate’s writing, taking his time and doing his best to illustrate the trees and greenery, the river that parted the forest, even a small figure that resembled Pairo.

Moments later, to their surprise, his soulmate began answering with an illustration of his own, contributing to what Kurapika had already done. The lines were more diligent than his own, but Kurapika studied the strokes on his arm at several angles and could not make sense of it.

“Is this a chicken?” His soulmate's artistic capabilities would have been disappointing if Kurapika had any interest in art. “It looks like a chicken.”

“It’s a crow,” Pairo insisted, suppressing a laugh. “Are you sure that I’m the one with worsening eyesight?”

Soon enough, the curves and lines of the bird were filled in with a solid black, just as Pairo said. The illustration on his forearm was complete.

“Oh,” Kurapika said, bright and delighted. “That’s so precious.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this so far! 
> 
> Kurapika's the only one in his clan who was able to keep his soul bond.. on the condition that he wasn't allowed to act upon it. He's about ten years old here, which is older than what I initially intended.
> 
> Please leave a comment—I'd love to know what you think of this chapter. You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


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